You in White Mask

You've been typing, recording behind my back for my entire life, but it's all wrong, this room is all wrong. The upside-down lampshade, that black light bulbs, your collection of African masks on the walls. I've never told you before but they've always given me nightmares. I close my eyes on my bed, falling asleep to your endless typing, and I fall into the jungle; beast trampeed along in the night and I can't see them, all the bushes move but there's no wind, and everything is screaming everywhere and I'm safe no where, not even in the coffin that is my bed, my coffin. (Your thoughts have always buried me.)

Maybe that's it, though. I'm not sure; everything like fireflies buzzing in the air. Off, on, off, on, somewhat on time but never perfect. And you, somewhere off in there, off into that night air, underneath the trees of our planet. The truth is I've never had you, that I'll never have you. Is that the way it's suppose to be? Me to sit here and wait every time. The closest I'll get to you is my last breath, as my soul floats through yours on it's way up stream, if I die before you.

And that's it, the end, it's always cut and dry like that, isn't it? How did your book end? Was it happy?

I don't think so, you're too cynical for that.

But who knows, I don't, we don't. I'll never get you and I know that.

I just can't help it sometimes is all. I hope it's a happy ending. I remember when we were younger you'd show me something and the images would bloom in my head like a lotus, and we were both so divine like mud, like dirt. We understood and the sky was just a blanket of hope draped over nothingness. It was our cloud and it followed us wherever we went. What happened? Does time pass so quickly, and do you mimic time? I don't know.

If you can't take down all the masks, at least take down the white one. It stares at me when I sleep at night and glows with it's own light.